And the world is making a huge fuss about it. Whether your parents, friends or even your lovely pets.

The unnatural. The taboo. The spaces that consist behind the closed doors. The restricted. The forbidden. The don’ts. The what ifs. The unseen, invisible and the unexplained. The monster under the bed.

The mysteries of life is what fires up the curiosity of people and therefore adds vigor and color to the everyday life. We are tired of what we know and see if what we are experiencing is truly what life truly is. And yet, such thing as what I’ve just said is what you already knew and probably bored out of your sofa, reading this post. Probably, you don’t have a sofa but this is how predictable the world may seem.

What use is a box if it is empty? Most probably to fill in with new things that could fill the space and meet its capacity. However there is a completely different box. Unopened and in the darkest corner of your basement. It is no ordinary box. It is a black metal box and has a lock and can only be unlocked with a certain set of numbers. It may contain several things you can think of based from the dimensions of the box. It can be huge, small but it doesn’t matter because it all depends on what you can make out of it. The set of numbers are unknown. The thing or things that could be inside is unknown. It could be anything. It could be nothing. But you ask yourself, “What great thing could be possibly locked inside this box?” but in the back of your head, something whispers that it could be empty. The lock is deceiving you. The limit is what makes your mind go wild. But your mind is curious and it disregarded the possibility of the nothingness inside the locked box. Because we are never contented with anything empty and we always put things inside that we can think of that will fit.

Let us try and open the box. You see a 4-digit number lock. The possibilities of each set of number are now crowding your mind. Like endless spoiled and impatient little children waiting in line, screaming for their respective turns but which will you choose first? It doesn’t matter and you began entering random set of numbers with the hopes to unlock the box. You have entered the trial and error stage. Your impatience is growing. Another number set. One after the other. You wait for the click–the signal that you succeeded unlocking the box. Silence. Wrong. You try for another set of numbers. In this situation, you see your masochistic side. Your patience is wearing thin. You cannot open the box, yet you try. You are tired. You lost too much time unlocking the box. What is inside, became your obsession.

So I leave the decision to you. Now, as long as there is still time left for you to enjoy the remainder of your life. You can hide the box and leave it alone for the rest of your life and go back to where you left off, or you can try and open the box because you still cling to the hope you have. The latter has consequences. Severe ones. But one thing is for sure: you cannot bring back the time you have used to open the box. Still, the possibility of it being empty is not ruled out but it is not what you believe. There is something.

Take the first option, leave and forget about everything then stop reading this post right now and go back to your own life.

Take the second option, read on and prepare for the consequences.

I had opened the box and the number is 2710.

The box is empty.

What use is a box if it is empty? Most probably to fill in with new things that could fill the space and meet its capacity. However this is a completely different box. You found a box that is full of nothing. This box took almost half of your time being alive and you have nothing. But this is the only box you have right now. This is now in your possession. Everything that you could have been at this point in time could have been different. But you chose the box. The empty metal box. Which has nothing. You found your life. You found what you are looking for. And time has never deprived you of the chance to start all over again.

It is in itself what we could not see or obscured from our vision and understanding is what makes the little neurons in our brains ignite and floor the gas pedal to power up the engine of Hope. To venture the unknown, the future and the possible past that are never truly there. The futility of men to seek such water-less trenches deep below the grounds of sanity, into the dark, engulfing void where severe consequences and uncertainty lie. The risks are hanged and weighed in the balance with a continuous increase to topple the stack of what is at stake, what you bargained which consists of the things that you loved most. It is where man finds the entrance to madness.

Down the rabbit-hole where Alice faced the unnatural is the place where we turn the tables, close the curtains and tread to the un-walkable path. It is not about courage. It is not about bravery. It is not about safety and certainty but a question that has to be answered, “Are you mad enough to give up all that you know to replace them with something…exquisitely sophisticated?”

Remove the doubts and lies; take all of the irregularities, the chaos, entropy, discord and everything that can possibly lead to destruction and severing of ties. Of all that is left is an uneventful life, place and time. A colorless world woven out of the true meaning. Without obscurity and thinking. Reasoning and imagination will leave the world and all we have there is and all that our brains will do is to kill every brain cell in side of it because we have come to the time of a collective acceptance of information. No questions asked, the stimuli aren’t enough, the mind is in deep slumber and the information itself has grasped and hold our brains to empower an idea. The evolution of ideas some of us may recognize as Memetics. An unseen revolution in an entirely different realm of reality whereas the generators of ideas are now being ruled by its creation.

I haven’t heard from you in almost a week. I hope you’re doing fine because I’m not. I’ve been having trouble breathing lately. I don’t know why and what this is or is it even a serious disease? I’m not sure. You know I’m not fond with the doctors. They’re too bossy in terms of drug prescriptions and in almost everything about things that I must and must not do. I can take care of myself. I’m not doing anything stressful lately so maybe this is just normal in aging. Though mother’s a nurse, I don’t talk much with her. Sometimes I just act normal or leave slowly from her sight before my panic attack kicks in. She won’t understand me. She won’t. She’ll always blame my writing and rant about why would I stay up all night writing my novel and not do it during the day. It’s really disappointing since she’s my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if some writers share this problem with me. I mean, the way she’s so focused about health that she’s gradually forgetting about me. She doesn’t care about me. She cares about my well-being and from my point of view, those two are different from each other. It just increases the gaps between us and the fact that I can view a single thing from several different perspectives suggests that I should be the one to understand. And I hate it.

Sometimes I wish I could just go back to my ordinary life. And maybe you’re tired of hearing this over and over again but…I don’t know. I just can’t unsee things that are not there. Everything around me just creates its own new layer of meaning. As if I can see through things and I am not sure if what I see is what it really is or is it just what I want it to be. It’s like everything has gone personal.

I keep rereading your letters. Every night and it’s what keeps me awake and I may have memorized a dozen of them. I just want to hear your voice over and over and it is what I hear everytime I read them. I just want you to be here. I want to talk with you because I know you’ll understand. It’s been months since we last met. I know you’re busy. I just want to know you’re safe. If you’re well or are you losing that blush on your cheek, hell it’s driving me insane. Sometimes, I look at the stars at night and think about if you’re seeing the same pattern that I’m seeing And I heard that tomorrow is going to be a full moon. And it’s your birthday. You may receive this letter later than I expect but I just greeted you a day earlier. I guess that makes sense.

Along with the envelope of this letter are poems I’ve written for you everytime I take a break from writing. You know it’s a relief to pour my emotions that block my mind to a paper. And it’s all about you. I just hope you like it and take it as my birthday present for you. Though I may not have much anything to say but feel free to find it inside these poems. I hope you can see what I refused to write and you might be amazed about the things that you can find but is never truly there.

Yours truly,

Cheshire

P.S.

I can write more long letters if you will. It’s just I have nothing to reply with.

It’s a very tiring day even though the the Sunday sun has not yet shown itself. Dawn is fast approaching and he is lost in his own thoughts. His chest barely giving him enough air for every breath he takes that would suffice the need of his hungry mind. And on the dark corner of his room he sits, embracing his legs and placing his chin on his knees.

The blanket and pillows are sprawled all across his bedroom floor. The faint moonlight coming from the open window is sending chilly wisps of air inside that empty room. Inside that emptiness where he choose to stay.

Calming yet, it bothers him. The peaceful atmosphere bothers him because he is afraid that he might be dead. Even for a second his mind cannot comprehend the sterile gaze of that pair of eyes looking at him. Veiled beneath the mask of void of darkness around him. He is not inside his bedroom. He is not in his house but somewhere in this world where he has the key. A place where the sun is silent–his mind.

He knows that it’s better to lock the doors. It’s better to shut the noise of silence that haunts him in his sleep for along with every strand of sound that he hears, came a whisper. A whisper so loud that can shake the walls and ceilings of his head.

Fear is creeping in. He had to stop the screaming. He closed his eyes. He covered his ears. His legs are trembling with every tone. His lips are shivering from the cold and the intangible sight of the unknown.

The door shook. Whatever is outside, it is trying to break in. The locks can’t hold the force of something he cowers to face. Streaks of light comes from the gap of the shaking door from its hinges and it’s starting to reveal his hidden secrets. Slowly being unconcealed by the power from the other side. Transparency is looming above him. Eating the place he crafted using his memories. The air he breathes is starting to diminish. The chilling sensation began to warm itself from the presence of the thing behind the door and it never ceases to try and force his way in.

Despite the sound that could surely echo miles away, he was sure he’s the only one who can hear it. No rescue would come. Just him. Alone. Cold.

Reluctantly, he builds up the courage to stand. With every effort, he tries to shake the feeling of throwing up. His insides are slowly being eaten by the malevolence being inflicted by the mysterious. The floor began to feel like a quicksand. With every step, an inch is given for him to sink into the slime of dirt.

A voice inside his head tells him that he’d never make it. His face will be buried beneath and be forgotten through time. His thoughts start to sink to madness. A type of paranoia that’s unbinding him from death. Letting it glow and light a spark of hope.

And as his eyes go deeper, he caught a faint glimpse of light shower his room. A silhouette of a lady in white sank her hand and grabbed his own. A smile so dazzling he dare not to tell. How she managed to rescue a soul and rest him to his death.

Everyday in his life are memories etched in every self-inflicted scars where the it wants it to be.

“It feeds with pain,” he says “So let them indulge upon me. I am their master.”

Years passed and he is tired of crying anymore. He is too damaged to cry. Now, it only seems that pain has abandoned him. Numb from grief of everyday’s fucked-up disorder. A mouth sealed shut, not wanting to be wrong, nor be heard for he himself was a terrible mistake the world has to offer. A rock sitting by the pavement. Invisible, behind those smiles. Eyes longing for attention and understanding. Yet, he sits by his bedroom window, looking at the constellations and counting his dead dreams and for another time, he takes again the razors and proceed to let himself feel again. To feel in the midst of numbness. To show these four walls how he struggles to survive in this world he cannot comprehend.

Loneliness has cast a void upon him. A hole that can never be filled. A bottomless pit. It is the place of solace where time does not exist. Just another abstraction of nature that consumes insanity.

Dreams are the only thing that keeps him going. As a small being in this world, he knows, he can make a change. He can change. He had fallen countless of times. Hit the ground with bloody forehead and lips. His wrists trailing with crimson ink.

He caught a drip of blood with his fingers and wrote on the walls of his mind,

“This madness too shall cease and will forever be buried under the depths of my consciousness. I know this all too shall pass and when the time comes, I will be ready to break this walls and shout to the world how I could turn this planet on the tips of my fingers and hold it against the galaxies to show how a little trash could be an asset to this reality. I have lived and will continue living for tomorrow. I have broken the chains that binds me to this rotting Hell.”

As he wrote the last words, the space has begun to crumble, falling under the vast void surrounding him. He stood on an empty space, where he is among the stars of the universe and its alluring beauty. So he started to make what has become.